glass hearts and iron love
by saunatonttu
Summary: There is no expiration date on heartbreak. FrUK, in a way.


The fragility of heart was best to be kept as a secret; it was a lesson that he learned again and again throughout his stormy history, perhaps even to the point where he closed himself off completely from others. It had got rather bad after the world wars, when his medicine for old heartbreaks had slipped from his grasp: colonies gaining independence, leaving him for the sake of themselves.

For each of them, England dedicated a bottle of Scotch, courtesy of his brother. Mornings were always difficult, especially if he was alone… like he was most of the times before the waves of punk music had swept the nation away. Oh, and the Beatles; though nothing special from the eyes of a modern person, back then Arthur had adored them. He still did. A small cure for smaller heartbreaks.

It was tiring to mourn his wounded heart, so what was once sheltered became completely hidden somewhere along the decades that continued to trickle by. 50's, 60's, 70's; then 80's, 90's, and a new millennium.

The years saw another war, battled in the minds of their peoples rather than on battlefields. Russia and America, like two big kids on the opposite side of a chessboard.

England used to love chess.

But this wasn't his game; it was America's, and England discovered that some heartbreaks truly did not have an expiration date.

* * *

A heart locked behind the finest, sturdiest doors was supposedly safe.

England thought as much, at least. Now that there was no gut-deep hate sizzling through his veins, no _passion_ to force out love from where it never lived, he withdrew into himself, away from Europe and not quite towards Americas either.

 _Loneliness_ was a word used by those that didn't know the pain of losing more and more of oneself with each crack that broke into the surface of a heart.

England supposed the toll was heavier on beings like them that were never quite supposed to humans but that still adapted to the human variety of emotions. Pride, guilt, _love_.

He wanted to know how China had dealt with it all. (He never asks.)

* * *

The meetings were long and dreary, and more than fulfilled England's need for social interactions: fighting with France and America, presenting his own ideas, fighting with France for rejecting his ideas once more.

His physique wasn't what it used to be, and sometimes France unintentionally bruised him. Sides, back, face; all the territories of his body that France had become closely acquainted with in the past. England did return it just as good. ("That was a good punch, England," Germany noted during one of the G8 meetings as they watched France hold his broken nose and wail about his ruined beauty.)

England tried not to think too much about the grimaces on France's face whenever he took notice of a purple bruise on England's face.

What a fool.

* * *

Outside from work, England tried not to involve himself in the lives of other nations too much asides from the occasional trips to a bar. (Finland was the best one for those, his cheer and kindness tending to soothe England's stressed nerves before they got drunk and started to complain about whatever ridiculous directives the EU had come up with that time.)

France was his usual company, strange as it was. Even stranger was that England was grateful for it, even though their bickering hardly relaxed him.

His heart, behind the closed lips and stern eyes and the chest too warm from alcohol, tried to run away from its prison those times the most, because whiskey really did loosen his lips and emotions.

The tears always came out, even if his heart didn't.

* * *

"You're such a problem child," France told him in the morning, blond hair glowing in the rare sunlight that trickled into England's bedroom. It burned his eyes – France and the sun, and the combination of those two. England closed his eyes again, and tried not to think about hot nights in Africa in the 19th century.

"Same to you, France," he managed to say through dry lips and a feeling of pins and needles within himself. His introversion did not allow for mornings spent together. Neither did his still-mourning heart. Yet there he was, face half-buried into a pillow with the Frenchman cooing irritating things that he did not want to hear, did not care for in the first place.

( _Lies_. France had always been his greatest heartbreak, the one that England seemed unable to recover from.)

One-night stands were draining as they were even without France staying for the remainder of the small hours, simply sleeping beside England, whose body was unaccustomed to the warmth of another.

"You should go," England said, crude and too forward as France's fingers trailed down to the small of his back where old scars lingered like a clingy ex-lover. "Don't you have a meeting with your ministers?"

"What, not even an invitation to stay for breakfast?" France quipped, and England heard the infuriating smile from equally infuriating voice.

"You hate my cooking," England returned, more wearily than he'd like to admit.

"I do," France admitted, leaning to kiss England's back, at the bruises forming on the pallid skin. England felt the Cheshire grin press against a dip of skin, at the end of his spine. "Which is why I must educate you on the art of cuisine."

"Sod off, will you?" England huffed, but his voice was lost into the pillow he smothered his face with. _Go away_ , he whispered to his heart. _You are not needed here._

France laughed, and England cursed more audibly – at France, at himself, at his own weaknesses.

* * *

He loved gardening; there was nothing as exquisite as the feeling of soft soil between his fingers and under his nails, nothing as soothing as seeing the plants come to life as days and weeks went by. Sometimes it made him think about the vast gardens of Versailles, and France's days of glory.

He would banish the thought, the feeling, with a self-depreciative sneer. How _dare_ France; how dare he invade England's most precious time with himself?

But the thought persisted, and memories of stolen kisses and mischievous glances throughout their histories tickled at the back of his mind, teasing and flicking at the embers of dying love.

England wished it to extinguish.

It still didn't.

* * *

The occasional meetings with America were hard to deal with because of the other's exaggerated extroverted nature that threatened to swallow England whole.

But England had too much fondness for the boy, even after all this time. He no longer held any expectations regarding America's feelings – let the lad hate him if he so wanted, goodness knew most of the world did, too.

"—so," America grinned at one time, a devious look in his eyes that put England on the edge. "How're things with France?"

"The same as always," England said, sipping at the tea that had gone cold some time ago. His fingers hold the cup too tightly, too tense to truly stop the flinch that came. "Why, America, are you planning on making a move on him?"

The thought of it made his lips curl down in distaste, and an old ache to widen the abyss inside him. It had always been there, gaping at him until he'd stare back, green eyes wide and unsuspecting before falling.

America sputtered, embarrassed and angry at the suggestion. " _Dude_ , like hell I would!"

"Revolution times," England reminded him quietly, hiding his lips into the cold edges of the cup. The mental image of younger America and France flickered through his mind like the screen of an old, dysfunctional television.

"England, c'mon," America whined, "why would I ever do something like that to you?"

"Whatever do you mean?" England spat, teeth clashing against the porcelain. He calmed down in the next second, squaring his shoulders as he set the cup down. "France's but an old enemy under the guise of an ally."

America's eyes narrowed, the sky blue of his eyes sharp and all too intelligent.

"Artie—" A nickname from a long time ago still managed to cut deep, and England swallowed down the hurt that threatened to spill. It had been so long since America had—

"Don't," he said, quietly but firmly, and for once America obeyed. "Let the bygones be bygones; I certainly have."

Lies, lies, they sat so comfortably on his tongue.

* * *

Love letters written years and decades ago that had never been sent litter England's drawers, and it was a miracle France hadn't snooped through them yet.

Or, perhaps, _love letters_ was the wrong term for this, England mused as he went through them on a rainy day in the middle of cold October.

 _I hate you_ , one of the letters started off gracefully, and England allowed himself to smirk as he remembered distinctly the mood he had been in when writing that.

 _I hate you_ was found in many letters, closely followed by _loathsome, meddling fool_ and _I want to strangle you_.

There were the few short ones, as well: _I love you. Please love me, too._ A fool mourning the loss of his first Elizabeth.

 _It is raining here,_ one of the letters from the late 18th century began, _as it is raining in my heart. Go die; how dare you still hold onto my heart even after what you have done._

England could not bring himself to look at the ones from the times of world wars; he clutched at his chest, eyes itching with tears that just wouldn't come out right.

Sometimes he longed for the days of his Empire, where the sun would not set and the only tears were cried by others.

* * *

Prussia was a good company for the nights that saw England drink himself to stupor. Prussia was loud and his presence all-consuming, obnoxious enough to hoard England's attention all to himself.

Maybe England _did_ have a type. Disgusting.

Prussia's fingers would occasionally squeeze at England's shoulder in a gesture of goodwill and all that, his lips grinning at England and spouting nonsense that would be forgotten by the morning.

It wasn't like they were friends or anything, though.

* * *

There was one morning that England woke up in the apartment in Munich that Prussia and Germany shared whenever Germany had business there. Most of the time, only Prussia lived there, pretending to not care about the politics his brother was so keenly executing. That morning, it was not so; Prussia had told him about it, so England was fully prepared to face Germany even with his raging hangover.

Groaning to himself as he tiptoed over Prussia's lax body on the floor, a bit off to the side from the mattress, England had a few precious moments to remain in the thought that there was only Germany beside them.

That idea soon crumbled when he passed the opening to the living room, and his bleary eyes caught sight of stiff handshakes and curly blond hair that shone to compete with the sun that dared to trickle into the room.

England, rather unceremoniously, crashed into a wall and startled the two nations.

"At ease," he muttered, rubbing at the side of his head, "it's me."

"Ah," Germany nodded, "England. Is brother still…?"

"Like a log," England snorted, making a face at the frailty of his own voice and at the taste of bile between lips and teeth. "Bathroom," he added before escaping France's smile-adorned stare.

When he reached his destination, his stomach gave in and he lunged for the toilet, a long shudder trailing up his spine as he spat out the contents of his stomach, probably not for the first time that day.

There, in the early spring of early 2010s, and with his head held over the toilet seat, he realized that he was not easing the pain in the least.

 _Such a masochist,_ France's words from a past not long gone mocked him.

* * *

France took him home that day. He often did unnecessary things like that, and England always struggled against being treated like an infant. France never paid mind to that.

"You and Gilbert get along surprisingly well," France commented with a slight twist of his mouth and a gleam in his eyes that made England nauseous again. "I suppose I should have known two raging alcoholics would inevitably find some common grounds."

"Quiet down," England snapped, swallowing an aspirin down his throat dry. France frowned at that, but quickly turned back to look at the road as he drove.

"Arthur, sometimes you worry me." The words hit England hard, like shards of glass against peeled skin. "And I do mean it. You look worn-out these days."

"Blame the climate change," England scoffed.

"Don't joke about it," Francis huffed. "About either of those things."

"What am I supposed to say?" England asked, voice hoarse and throat constricting around words. "'Thank you for your considerate concern'? I think not."

"An explanation would be a start," Francis suggested, like he was entitled to hearing about England's well-being. Like he was entitled to _care_. England hated it. England _hated_ —

"I don't want to."

"Very mature, _rosbif_ ," Francis snapped, and England noted how the hands around the steering wheel tightened and whitened in complexion. "If you want to be obstinate, go ahead."

 _I love you_ , England thought as hatefully as he managed, _and you will never know._

"Bugger off," he said instead, and France's ensuing sigh made him snicker in juvenile amusement.

* * *

"Would you want to—" France gestured at his house, clearly unwilling to let England go back to the other side of the Channel.

"Sure," England said, watching as a lecherous grin spread over France's face. It was quite ugly compared to the happy smiles England had sometimes seen on his face, but he would take what he could get from this twat as long as he didn't have to give anything in return.

"Stay the night, too?" France kissed England's lips gently. The breath mint had apparently helped, because France did not many a disgusted face afterwards.

"We'll see," England said vaguely as he shifted to get out of the car, hands still shaking from the hangover. "Amaze me, and I might."

He wouldn't; he hated lingering in warmth that he could never have.

France's laugh was bright and tinkling, and made England think about the innocence of childhoods and crushes that hadn't yet crashed into an iceberg.

* * *

"I love you," Francis told him that night, an afterthought in the post-coital warmth that lingered between them.

England said nothing in return, though he gave France a glance.

"I do," France said, hand brushing the slope of England's cheek. Gentle, terribly gentle; England leaned towards the touch with the need of someone unloved. " _Crois-moi, s'il te plait._ "

England sighed. "I don't—"

"Don't lie," France murmured.

"I _don't_ ," England repeated, swatting the gentle hand away, "and stop spouting nonsense already."

"Nonsense, is it?"

"Yes. Go to sleep, frog."

 _Liar._


End file.
